


Shamrocks

by MichelleDV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Summary: A cutesy, mildly angsty little St. Patrick's Day fic. Because I like them.
Relationships: Donna Hanscum/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Shamrocks

**Author's Note:**

> A cutesy, mildly angsty little St. Patrick's Day fic. Because I like them.

He hadn’t meant to look.

Well, he _always_ meant to look, but he also knew how Donna felt about him staring at her, especially in such a state of undress. She’d gotten used to it during sexy times, but even then her face flushed a becoming shade of pinkish-red and her shyness took over. He knew he had her damn ex to thank for that, but Dean had no doubt with more time and her ever-growing confidence she’d come around.

But he really hadn’t meant to see what he saw this time. He’d merely thrown a casual “You wanna eat lunch here or in town?” over his shoulder as they got dressed and couldn’t help the double-take and stare that followed.

He barely had time to read the words across the butt of her panties before she slid her jeans on, hiding the treasure from his curious eyes. Had he read that right? The light gray boyshorts with a green waistband and a sparkly green shamrock on each cheek had ‘Shake Those Shamrocks’ emblazoned on them in green glitter?

“Whoa, what was that?” He couldn’t help himself. He knew he risked her turning shy and clamming up or getting irritated with him, which resulted in the same thing, but he had to know. “I’ve never seen those before.”

“What?” Donna glanced over her shoulder to find Dean staring—nearly gawking, if she were honest—and she rushed to throw her green shirt on. “Dean…” Her warning, muffled by her shirt, sounded less serious than she’d meant for it to.

He cleared his throat, a small smile playing at his lips. _Tread lightly_ , he warned himself. She hadn’t been her usual, jovial self since she’d arrived at the bunker the day before, and though he’d tried to get her to talk, she’d brushed it off, feigning happy. He wanted to know what was going on in her head, and teasing too much or pissing her off would only push her away.

He waited until she faced him—fully clothed, he was sad to note—one hand on her hip. “The, uh….shamrocks?” Deliberately darting his eyes to her hips and back, he stared at her, amused.

“Oh.” He saw pink blooming on her cheeks as she turned her back to him, reaching for her jewelry and gun on the bedside table. “They’re nothin’.”

“Not true,” he assured her. “They’re somethin’.”

She swore she heard admiration in his voice. Or was it teasing? “You ready to go? We’ve got a lot of errands to run.”

“Uh huh…”

His smug tone, accompanied by the smile she heard in his voice, grated on her. “It’s nothing, Dean.” She hadn’t meant to sound as harsh as she did, had only meant to shut down the conversation, but she knew she’d overdone it.

“Hey.”

His soft tone, full of concern, popped the bubble of frustration inside of her, leaving her feeling deflated, even as he moved to sit next to her as she sunk down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m…sorry if I…said something wrong.”

It came out nearly a question, and it made her feel worse because Dean had always been so good to her.

“No.” She shook her head, frustrated at herself. “You didn’t say anything wrong.” She glanced at him, his eyes questioning, apprehension written on his face, before she dropped her gaze to her hands. “I was cleaning out the spare bedroom the other day and came across a bunch of stuff that reminded me of Doug.”

The name caused Dean to tense, though he tried not to let it show. They both had a past, and while they didn’t talk about them often, he was always overcome by emotions when Doug was brought up: disgust and a need to punch something with Doug the First (or as he’d come to think of him, the Worst) and regret and sorrow for what Donna had lost with Doug the Second. He didn’t know which one she referred to, but regardless, unlocking old doors always led to emotional strife.

“I’d bought a bunch of stuff, a long time ago…when I thought our marriage could be saved. Cute clothes, jewelry, a whole line of holiday-themed lingerie….sorry, I know you don’t wanna hear this stuff,” she apologized, realizing this was likely the last door Dean had wanted to open.

“Don’t be sorry.” He reached over and gripped one of her hands in his. “Tell me?”

He didn’t want to know, not really. He hated hearing how the Worst had treated her, how he verbally assaulted and abused her, and after the handful of times she’d talked about her marriage, full of aching for Donna and fury at the Worst, he had to go blow off steam by visiting the shooting range or the boxing bag in the gym. But he also wanted to know in order to understand Donna more, to help her regain a healthy view of herself, and because he loved her—he wanted to know everything, even the parts she hated. The Worst had left her feeling subpar, insecure, and less than feminine. Her relationship with the Second had helped heal some of those wounds, as had taking on monsters, her role as sheriff, and helping Jody and the girls kick ass. But his departure had deeply hurt her and left her wondering if any man would respect her as a hunter/sherriff _and_ want her as a woman.

He’d be that man, and he wanted her to know it.

“I’d bought that stuff, determined to try. Doug wouldn’t, and I felt I had to be the one to make something happen, to… _fix_ me so he’d want me…and want to stay.”

He heard the ache in her voice, full of defeat and self-recriminations. The reassurances lined up on his tongue like a freeway pile-up, and it took all the strength he possessed not to butt in, not to try to fix the hurts thrust upon her by some prick who’d never deserved her.

He waited, his thumb lightly rubbing a rhythm against her hand as she spoke.

“I guess I thought…” She huffed derisively before continuing. “…hoped that somehow it’d help. Can’t see now why I cared so much then. I loved him, I know I did, but…it took being away from him to know I was worth more than he ever gave me credit for.”

She glanced at him furtively, his gaze empathetic and intense and patient, which both soothed and unnerved her. “It ended up making things worse though—for me. I’d set aside whatever fight still had my heart hurting, get dolled up, and show up vulnerable. Hopeful. Forgiving. Caring. Desperately wanting things to change. To go back to the way it’d been before he’d shown his true colors and treated me like shit.”

Though he could hear the strain in her voice, she didn’t cry. His heart both ached and raged as she spoke, the images she set in his mind playing like a film he already knew the ending to, even as he wished he could rewrite it.

“I shouldn’t have tried so hard, but I needed to know I’d done everything I could to make it work, and this was my last attempt. It backfired, though. Just gave him better ammunition: new slights, cutting comments, ridicules. I felt foolish. Stupid. As though new clothes would fix my marriage.”

She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice as she scoffed at her younger self, but it bled through, a deep red wound that hadn’t yet healed. She shook her head to brush the pain away and continued.

“After he left, I threw all the things I’d bought into a box and shoved it in the back of the guest room closet. I’d forgotten all about them…until I found them the other day. At first I was going to give it all away, but…I _like_ the stuff I bought. It’s all still brand new, and it’s pretty and fun and sassy.”

“Like you.”

Donna felt her heart clench in her chest at his words, and she raised her eyes to his. Dean stared at her intently, his gaze full of hurt, compassion, and fire. “You amaze me,” he nearly whispered in wonder. “It wasn’t your job to fix him. Or even try to make it work after he treated you the way he did. But still you cared. And forgave. And didn’t for one second let him destroy the incredible woman you are.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

Dean waited a few moments before cupping her cheek and guiding her back to face him. “You have nothing— _nothing_ ,” he reiterated emphatically. “to feel foolish about. A man like that doesn’t deserve to be with any woman, let alone someone as strong and independent and compassionate as you. Hell, I know how fortunate I am you’re here with me, and I don’t ever want to do anything to screw that up.

“You like that stuff? You wear it. It makes you feel good? Buy it all. You wanna eat pie? Just make sure you bring me some.” She huffed a laugh, but he continued. “But don’t ever think there was something else you could’ve done or tried to be to please a bastard like that. You are sexy as hell. You’re smart and strong and funny and I wanna spend every second you’ll let me showing you how much I love everything about you.”

Donna moved so quickly he barely had time to register it before her lips crashed against his, and when she pulled away, she leaned her forehead against his, their noses barely touching.

“Sweetheart, you okay?”

“You betcha,” she murmured, her breath whispering against his lips before she sat upright. “Thank you. Finding all that stuff just made relive some of before, and…I was really struggling with whether to get rid of it or keep it. But stuff him! I’m not gonna let him ruin nice things for me. Including you. I don’t want issues with him to come between us. Next time I’ll try to talk things out. Didn’t mean to be a grumpy-Gus.”

“You weren’t.” Dean raised her hand and kissed it. “But you come talk to me about anything, any time, okay?”

She gave him a thousand-watt smile, the one he held on to when things got bad, and nodded.

“Does that mean you’re keeping all that stuff?”

“I like it….yeah, I think so,” she stated, feeling more like herself again.

“Good. Does that mean you’re gonna shake your shamrocks for me?”

“Dean,” she chuffed with a smile, pushing at his shoulder as she got up and walked toward the bedroom door.

He stared after her longingly. “Does it?”

With her hand on the doorknob, she turned to face him, biting her lower lip. “Maybe when we get back,” she promised, then sashayed out of the room.


End file.
